1 One morning late in spring the
yellow primroses were still abloom on the high moorlands above Plymouth;
the chilly sea wind was blowing hard, and the bright sunshine gave little
warmth, even in a sheltered place. The yard of the great Mill Prison was
well defended by its high stockade, but the wind struck a strong wing into
it in passing, and set many a poor half-clad man to shivering.

1A The dreary place was crowded
with sailors taken from American ships: some forlorn faces were bleached
by long captivity, and others were still round and ruddy from recent seafaring.
There was a constant clack of sharp, angry voices. Outside the gate was
a group of idle sightseers staring in, as if these poor Yankees were a
menagerie of outlandish beasts; now and then some compassionate man would
toss a shilling between the bars, to be pitifully scrambled for, or beckon
to a prisoner who looked more suffering than the rest. Even a southwesterly
gale hardly served to lighten the heavy air of such a crowded place, and
nearly every one looked distressed; the smallpox had blighted many a face,
so that the whole company wore a piteous look, though each new day still
brought new hopes of liberty.

2 There were small groups of men
sitting close together. Some were playing at games with pebbles and little
sticks, their draughts board or fox-and-geese lines being scratched upon
the hard trodden ground. Some were writing letters, and wondering how to
make sure of sending them across the sea. There were only two or three
books to be seen in hand; most of the prisoners were wearily doing nothing
at all.

3 In one corner, a little apart
from the rest, sat a poor young captain who had lost his first command,
a small trading vessel on the way to France. He looked very downcast, and
was writing slowly, a long and hopeless letter to his wife.

4 "I now regret that I had not
taken your advice and Mother's and remained at home instead of being a
prisoner here," he had already written, and the stiff, painfully shaped
words looked large and small by turns through his great tears. "I was five
days in the prison ship. I am in sorrow our government cares but little
for hir subjects. They have nothing allowed them but what the British government
gives them. Shameful, -- all other nations feels for their subjects except
our Country. There is no exchange of prisoners. It is intirely uncertain
when I return perhaps not during the war. I live but very poor, every thing
is high. I hope you have surmounted your difficulties and our child has
come a Comfort to imploy your fond attention. It is hard the loss of my
ship and difficult to bare. God bless you all. My situation is not so bad
but it might be worse. This goes by a cartel would to God I could go with
it but that happiness is denied me. It would pain your tender heart to
view the distressed seamen crowded in this filthy prison, there is kind
friends howiver in every place and some hours passed very pleasant in spite
of every lack some says the gallows or the East Indias will be our dreadful
destiny. 't would break a stone's heart to see good men go so hungry we
must go barefoot when our shoes is done. Some eats the grass in the yard
and picks up old bones, and all runs to snatch the stumps of our cabbage
the cooks throws out. some makes a good soup they say from snails a decent
sort that hives about the walls, but I have not come to this I could not
go it. They says we may be scattered on the King's ships. I hear the bells
in Plymouth Town and Dock pray God 't is for no victory -- no I hear in
closing 't is only their new Lord Mayor coming in" --

5 As this was finished there was
another man waiting close by, who caught impatiently at the thrice-watered
ink, and looked suspiciously to see if any still remained.

6 "Harbert said 's how I should
take it next," grumbled the fellow prisoner, "if so be you've left me any.
Who'll car' our letters to the cartel? They want to send a list o' those
that's dead out o' the Dolton, an' I give my promise to draw up the names."

7 There were many faces missing
now from the crew of the Dolton brigantine, taken nearly a year and a half
before, but there were still a good number of her men left in the prison.
Others had come from the Blenheim or the Fancy; some from the Lexington;
and the newest resident was a man off the Yankee Hero, who had spent some
time after his capture as sailor on a British man-of-war. He was a friendly
person, and had brought much welcome news, being also so strong and well
fed that he was a pleasant sight to see. Just now he sat with Charles Herbert,
of Newbury, in Massachusetts, whom they all called the scribe. For once
this poor captive wore a bright, eager look on his scarred face, as he
listened to the newcomer's talk of affairs; they had been near neighbors
at home. The younger man had been in prison these many months. He was so
lucky as to possess a clumsy knife, which was as great a treasure as his
cherished bottle of ink, and was busy making a little box of cedar wood
and fitting it neatly together with pegs. Since he had suffered the terrible
attack of smallpox which had left his face in ruins, and given him a look
of age at twenty, his eyesight had begun to fail; he was even now groping
over the ground, to find one of the tiny dowels that belonged to his handiwork.

8 "'T is there by your knee; the
rags of your trouser leg was over it," said Titcomb, the new man-of-war's
man, as he reached for the bit of wood.

9 "Who's this new plant o' grace,
comin' out o' hospit'l?" he asked suddenly, looking over Herbert's shoulder,
with the peg in his fingers. "'T is a stranger to me, and with the air
of a gentleman, though he lops about trying his sea legs like an eel on
's tail."

10 "No place for gentlemen here,
God help him!" said the young scribe sadly, trying to clear his dull eyes
with a ragged sleeve as he turned to look. "No, I don't know who 't is.
I did hear yisterday that there was an officer fetched here in the night,
from the nor'ard, under guard, and like to be soon hanged. Some one off
of a Yankee privateer, they said, that went in and burnt the shipping of
a port beyond Wales. I overheared the sentinels havin' some talk about
him last night. I expect 't was that old business of the Ranger, and nothin'
new."

11 There was a rough scuffling
game going on in the prison yard, which made all the sick and disabled
men shrink back against the walls, out of danger. The stranger came feebly
from point to point, as the game left space, toward the sunny side where
the two Newbury men were sitting. As they made room for him, they saw that
he was dressed in the remains of a torn, weather-stained uniform; his arm
was in a sling, and his shoulder fast bound with dirty bandages.

12 "You're a new bird in this
pretty cage," said poor Herbert, smiling pleasantly. He was a fellow of
sympathetic heart, and always very friendly with newcomers.

13 The stranger returned
his greeting, with a distressed glance toward their noisy companions, and
seated himself heavily on the ground, leaning back against the palisade.
The tumult and apparent danger of finding himself trodden underfoot vexed
and confused him in his weakness; presently he grew faint, and his head
dropped on his breast. His last thought was a wish to be back in the wretched
barracks, where at least it was quiet. At that moment two men pushed their
way out of the middle of a quarreling group of playmates, and ran toward
him.

14 "'T ain't never you, sir!"
cried one.

15 "'T is Mr. Roger Wallingford,
too! Don't you think I've got sense enough to know?" scolded the other,
both speaking at once, in tones which conveyed much pity and astonishment
to the Newbury men's ears.

16 "By God! it is, an' he's a
dyin' man!"

17 Gideon Warren was a Berwick
sailor of the old stock, who had known the lieutenant from a child, and
was himself born and reared by the river. "What've them devils used him
such a way for?" he demanded angrily. "He looks as ancient as the old judge,
his father, done, the week afore he died. What sort of a uniform's this
he's got on him?"

18 The other men looked on, and,
any excitement being delightful in so dull a place, a crowd gathered about
them quickly, pushing and jostling, and demanding to know what had happened.
Warren, a heavily-built, kind-faced old mariner, had fallen on his knees
and taken the sick man's head on his own ample shoulder, with all the gentleness
of a woman. There was more than one old Berwick neighbor standing near.
The general racket of noise began to be hushed.

20 "'T ain't no British fightin'
gear, nor French neither, that's on him," said Ichabod Lord, as he leaned
forward to get a better view of the red waistcoat, and, above all, the
gilt buttons of the new prisoner's coat.

21 "'T is an officer from one
o' our own Congress ships; they'd keep such news from us here, any way
they could."

22 "Looks to me different," said
the Newbury man who was with Herbert. "No, I'll begretch it's anything
more'n some livery wear and relic o' fashion. 'T is some poor chap they've
cotched out'n some lord's house; he mought be American-born, an' they took
him to be spyin' on 'em."

23 "What d' you know o' them high
affairs?" returned Warren indignantly. "Livery wear? You ain't never been
situated where you'd be like to see none! 'T is a proper uniform, or was
one, leastways; there's a passel o' anchors worked on him, and how he ever
come here ain't for me to say, but 't is our young Squire Wallin'ford,
son an' heir o' the best gentleman that was ever on the old Piscataqua
River.["]

24 "When we come away, folks was
all certain they had leanin's to the wrong side; his mother's folks was
high among the Boston Tories," explained Ichabod Lord wonderingly. "Yet
he must ha' been doin' some mischief 'long o' the Patriots, or he'd never
been sent here for no rebel, -- no, they'd never sent him here; this ain't
where they keep none o' their crown jew'ls! Lord! I hope he ain't goin'
to die afore he tells some news from the old Landin' an' Pound Hill, an'
how things was goin' forrard, when he left home, all up along the Witchtrot
road!"

25 These last words came straight
from the depths of an exile's heart, and nobody thought it worth while
to smile at the names of his localities; there was hardly a man who was
not longing for home news in the same desperate way. A jail was but a jail
the world over, a place to crowd a man lower down, soul and body, and England
was not likely to be anxious about luxuries for these ship's companies
of rebels and pirates, the willful destroyers of her commerce; they were
all guilty of treason, and deserved the worst of punishment.

26 There was a faint flicker of
color now on the stranger's cheeks, and Charles Herbert had brought some
water, and was fanning him with a poor fragment of headgear, while some
[one] else rubbed his cold hands. They were all well enough used to seeing
men in a swoon; the custom was to lay them close to the wall, if they were
in the way, to recover themselves as best they could, but this man with
the stained red waistcoat might have news to tell.

27 "I'll bate my head he's been
on the Ranger with Paul Jones," announced Ichabod Lord solemnly, as if
he were ready to suffer for his opinions. "That's what 't is; they may
have all been taken, too, off the coast."

28 "Why, 't is the uniform of
our own Congress navy, then!" exclaimed young Herbert, with his scarred
cheeks gone bright crimson like a girl's, and a strange thrill in his voice.
He sprang to his feet, and the men near him gave the best cheer they could
muster. Poor Wallingford heard it, and stirred a little, and half opened
his eyes.

29 "I've above two shillings here
that I've airnt makin' of my workboxes: some o' you fellows run to the
gates and get a decent-looking body to fetch us some brandy," begged Herbert
hastily.

30 "I'm all right now," said Wallingford
aloud; and then he saw whose stout arms were holding him, and looked into
a familiar face.

31 "Good God! we had news at home
long ago that you were dead, Warren!" he said, with wide-eyed bewilderment.

32 "I bain't then, so now," insisted
the honest Gideon indignantly, which amused the audience so that they fell
to laughing and slapping one another on the shoulder.

33 "Well, I bain't,"repeated
Warren, as soon as he could be heard. "I've been here in this prison for
seven months, and 't is a good deal worse 'n layin' at home in Old Fields
bur'in' ground, right in sight o' the river 'n' all 's a-goin' on. Tell
us where you come from, sir, as soon 's you feel able, and how long you
are from Barvick! We get no sort o' news from the folks. I expect you can't
tell me whether my old mother's livin'?" The poor man tried hard to master
his feelings, but his face began to twitch, and he burst out crying suddenly,
like a child.

34 "Looks like they've all gone
and forgot us," said a patient, pale-faced fellow who stood near. Wallingford
was himself again now, and looked with dismay at those who looked at him.
Their piteous pallor and hungry-eyed misery of appearance could give but
little sense of welcome or comfortable reassurance to a new captive. He
was as poor as they, and as lacking in present resource, and, being weak
and worn, the very kindness and pity of the arms that held him only added
to his pain.

35 "If I had not come the last
of my way by sea," he told them, trying to speak some cheerful hope to
such hopeless souls, "I might have got word to London or to Bristol, where
I can count upon good friends." But some of the listeners looked incredulous
and shook their heads doubtfully, while there were those who laughed bitterly
as they strolled away.

36 "Have you any late news from
Captain Paul Jones?" he asked, sitting straight now, though Warren still
kept a careful arm behind him. "I was at Whitehaven with him; I belong
on the frigate Ranger," and his eyes grew bright and boyish.

37 "They say that one of her own
officers tried to betray the ship," sneered a young man, a late comer to
the Mill Prison, who stood looking straight into poor Wallingford's face.

37 "'T was true enough, too,"
said Roger Wallingford frankly; "'t is by no fault of mine that you see
me here. God grant that such treachery made no other victim!"

38 "They say that the Ranger has
taken a mort o' prizes, and sent them back to France," announced the Newbury
sailor. "Oh, Lord, yes, she's scared 'em blue ever sense that night she
went into Whitehaven! She took the Drake sloop o' war out o' Carrickfergus
that very next day."

39 "I knew there was such business
afoot!" cried the lieutenant proudly; but he suddenly turned faint again,
and they saw a new bright stain strike through the clumsy bandages on his
shoulder.

XXXII.

1 The less said of a dull sea
voyage, the better; to Madam Wallingford and her young companion their
slow crossing to the port of Bristol could be but a long delay. Each day
of the first week seemed like a week in passing, though from very emptiness
it might be but a moment in remembrance; time in itself being like money
in itself, -- nothing at all unless changed into action, sensation, material.
At first, for these passengers by the Golden Dolphin, there was no hope
of amusement of any sort to shorten the eventless hours. Their hearts were
too heavy with comfortless anxieties.

2 The sea was calm, and the May
winds light but steady from the west. It was very warm for the season of
year, and the discouragements of early morning in the close cabin were
easily blown away by the fresh air of the quarter-deck. The captain, a
well-born man, but diffident in the company of ladies, left his vessel's
owner and her young companion very much to themselves. Mary had kept to
a sweet composure and uncomplainingness, for her old friend's sake, but
she knew many difficult hours of regret and uncertainty now that, having
once taken this great step, Madam Wallingford appeared to look to her entirely
for support and counsel, and almost to forget upon how great an adventure
they had set forth. All Mary's own cares and all her own obligations and
beliefs sometimes rose before her mind, as if in jealous arraignment of
her presence on the eastward-moving ship. Yet though she might think of
her brother's displeasure and anxiety, and in the darkest moments of all
might call herself a deserter, and count the slow hours of a restless night,
when morning came, one look at Madam Wallingford's pale face in the gray
light of their cabin was enough to reassure the bravery of her heart. In
still worse hours of that poor lady's angry accusation of those whom she
believed to be their country's enemies, Mary yet found it possible to be
patient, as we always may be when Pity comes to help us; there was ever
a certainty in her breast that she had not done wrong, -- that she was
only yielding to an inevitable, irresistible force of love. Fate itself
had brought her out of her own country.

3 Often they sat pleasantly together
upon the deck, the weather was so clear and fine, Mary being always at
Madam Wallingford's feet on a stout little oaken footstool, busy with her
needle to fashion a warmer head covering, or to work at a piece of slow
embroidery on a strip of linen that Peggy had long ago woven on their own
loom. Often the hearts of both these women, who were mistresses of great
houses and the caretakers of many dependents, were full of anxious thought
of home and all its business.

4 Halfway from land to land, with
the far horizon of a calm sea unbroken by mast or sail, the sky was so
empty by day that the stars at night brought welcome evidence of life and
even companionship, as if the great processes of the universe were akin
to the conscious life on their own little ship. In spite of the cruelty
of a doubt that would sometimes attack her, Mary never quite lost hold
on a higher courage, or the belief that they were on their way to serve
one whom they both loved, to do something which they alone could do. The
thought struck her afresh, one afternoon, that they might easily enough
run into danger as they came near land; they might not only fall an easy
prey to some Yankee privateer (for their sailing papers were now from Halifax),
but they might meet the well-manned Ranger herself, as they came upon the
English coast. A quick flush brightened the girl's sea-browned cheeks,
but a smile of confidence and amusement followed it.

5 Madam Wallingford was watching
her from the long chair.

6 "You seem very cheerful to-day,
my dear child," she said wistfully.

7 "I was heartened by a funny
little dream in broad daylight," answered Mary frankly, looking up with
something like love itself unveiled in her clear eyes.

8 "It is like to be anything but
gay in Bristol, when we come to land," answered Madam Wallingford. "I had
news in Halifax, when we lay there, that many of their best merchants in
Bristol are broken, and are for a petition to Parliament to end these troubles
quickly. All their once great trade with the colonies is done. I spent
many happy months in Bristol when I was young. 'T was a noble town, with
both riches and learning, and full of sights, too; 't was a fit town for
gentlefolk. I sometimes think that if anything could give back my old strength
again, 't would be to take the air upon the Clifton Downs."

9 "You will have many things to
show me," said Mary, with a smile. "You are better already for the sea
air, Madam. It does my heart good to see the change in you."

10 "Oh, dear child, if we were
only there!" cried the poor lady. "Life is too hard for me; it seems sometimes
as if I cannot bear it a moment longer. Yet I shall find strength for what
I have to do. I wonder if we must take long journeys at once? 'T is not
so far if Roger should be at Plymouth, as they believed among the Halifax
folks. But I saw one man shake his head and look at me with pity, as I
put my questions. He was from England, too, and just off the sea" --

11 "There is one thing I am certain
of, -- Roger is not dead," said Mary. "We are sure to find him soon," she
added, in a different tone, when she had spoken out of her heart for very
certainty. The mother's face took on a sweet look of relief; Mary was so
strong-hearted, so sure of what she said, that it could not help being
a comfort.

12 "Our cousin Davis will be gathering
age," Madam Wallingford continued, after a little while. "I look to find
her most sadly changed. She had been married two years already when I made
my first voyage to England, and went to visit her."

13 Mary looked up eagerly from
her work, as if to beg some further reminiscences of the past. Because
she loved Madam Wallingford so well it was pleasant to share the past with
her; the old distance between them grew narrower day by day.

14/1 "I was but a girl of seventeen
when I first saw Bristol, and I went straight to her house from the ship,
as I hope we may do now, if that dear heart still remains in a world that
needs her," said the elder woman. "She is of kin to your own people, you
must remember, as well as to the Wallingfords. Yes, she was glad of my
visit, too, for she was still mourning for her mother. Being the youngest
child, she had been close with her till her marriage, and always a favorite.
They had never been parted for a night or slept but under the same roof,
until young Davis would marry her, and could not be gainsaid. He had come
to the Piscataqua plantations, supercargo of a great ship of his father's;
the whole countryside had flocked to see so fine a vessel, when she lay
in the stream at Portsmouth. She was called the Rose and Crown; she was
painted and gilded in her cabin like a king's pleasure ship. He promised
that his wife should come home every second year for a long visit, and
bragged of their ships being always on the ocean; he said she should keep
her carriage both on sea and on land. 'T was but the promise of a courting
man. He was older than she, and already very masterful; he had grown stern
and sober, and made grave laws for his household, when I saw it, two years
later. He had come to be his father's sole heir, and felt the weight of
great affairs, and said he could not spare his wife out of his sight, when
she pleaded to return with me; a woman's place was in her husband's house.
Mother and child had the sundering sea ever between them, and never looked
in each other's face again; for Mistress Goodwin was too feeble to take
the journey, though she was younger than I am now. He was an honest man
and skillful merchant, was John Davis; but few men can read a woman's heart,
that lives by longing, and not by reason; 't is writ in another language.

14/2 "You have often heard of
the mother, old Mistress Goodwin, who was taken to Canada by the savages,
and who saw her child killed by them before her eyes? They threatened to
kill her too because she wept, and an Indian woman pitied her, and flung
water in her face to hide the tears," the speaker ended, much moved.

15 "Oh yes. I always wish I could
remember her," answered Mary. "She was a woman of great valor, and with
such a history. 'T was like living two lifetimes in one." The girl's face
shone with eagerness as she looked up, and again bent over her needlework.
"She was the mother of all the Goodwins; they have cause enough for pride
when they think of her."

16 "Then she had great beauty,
too, even in her latest age, though her face was marked by sorrow," continued
Madam Wallingford, easily led toward entertaining herself by the listener's
interest, the hope of pleasing Mary. "Mistress Goodwin was the skillful
hostess of any company, small or great, and full of life even when she
was bent double by her weight of years, and had seen most of her children
die before her. There was a look in her eyes as of one who could see spirits,
and yet she was called a very cheerful person. 'T was indeed a double life,
as if she knew the next world long before she left this one. They said
she was long remembered by the folk she lived among in Canada; she would
have done much kindness there even in her distress. Her husband was a plain,
kind man, very able and shrewd-witted, like most Goodwins, but she was
born a Plaisted of the Great House; they were the best family then in the
plantation. Oh yes, I can see her now as if she stood before me, -- a small
body, but lit with flame from no common altar of the gods!" exclaimed Madam
Wallingford, after a moment's pause. "She had the fine dignity which so
many women lack in these days, and knew no fear, they always said, except
at the sight of some savage face. This I have often heard old people say
of her earlier years, when the Indians were still in the country; she would
be startled by them as if she came suddenly upon a serpent. Yet she would
treat them kindly."

17 "I remember when some of our
old men still brought their guns to church and stood them in the pews,"
said Mary; "but this year there were only two poor huts in the Vineyard,
when the Indians came down the country to catch the salmon and dry them.
There are but a feeble few of all their great tribe; 't is strange to know
that a whole nation has lived on our lands before us! I wonder if we shall
disappear in our own turn? Peggy always says that when the first settlers
came up the river they found traces of ancient settlement; the Vineyard
was there, with its planted vines all run to waste and of a great age,
and the old fields, too, which have given our river neighborhoods their
name. Heaven knows who cleared and planted them; 't was no Indian work.
Peggy says there were other white people in Barvick long ago; the old Indians
had some strange legends of a fair-haired folk who had gone away. Did Mistress
Goodwin ever speak of her captivity, or the terrible march to Canada through
the snow, when she was captured with the other Barvick folk, Madam?" asked
Mary, with eagerness to return to their first subject. "People do not speak
much of those old times now, since our own troubles came on."

18 "No, no, she would never talk
of her trials; 't was not her way," protested Madam Wallingford, and a
shadow crossed her face. "'T was her only happiness to forget such things.
They needed bravery in those old days; in our time nothing can haunt us
as their fear of sudden assault and savage cruelty must have haunted them."

19 Mary thought quickly enough
of that angry mob which had so lately gathered about her old friend's door,
but she said nothing. The Sons of Liberty and their visit seemed to have
left no permanent discomfort in Madam's mind. "No, no!" said the girl aloud.
"We have grown so comfortable that even war has its luxuries; they have
said that a common soldier grows dainty with his food and lodging, and
the commanders are daily fretted by such complaints."

20 "There is not much comfort
to be had, poor fellows!" exclaimed Madam Wallingford rebukingly, as if
she and Mary had changed sides. "Not at your Valley Forge, and not with
the King's troops last year in Boston. They suffered everything, but not
more than the rebels liked."

21 Mary's cheeks grew red at the
offensive word. "Do not say rebels!" she entreated. "I do not think that
Mistress Hetty Goodwin would side with Parliament, if she were living still.
Think how they loved our young country, and what they bore for it, in those
early days!"

22 "'T is not to the purpose,
child!" answered the old lady sharply. "They were all for England against
France and her cruel Indian allies; I meant by 'rebels' but a party word.
Hetty Goodwin might well be of my mind; too old to learn irreverence toward
the King. I hate some of his surrounders, -- I can own to that! I hate
the Bedfords, and I have but scorn for his Lord Sandwich or for Rockingham.
They are treating our American Loyalists without justice. Sir William Howe
might have had five thousand men of us, had he made proclamation. Fifty
of the best gentlemen in Philadelphia who were for the Crown waited upon
him only to be rebuffed."

23 She checked herself quickly,
and glanced at Mary, as if she were sorry to have acknowledged so much.
"Yes, I count upon Mr. Fox to stand our friend rather than upon these;
and we have Mr. Franklin, too, who is large-minded enough to think of the
colonies themselves, and to forget their petty factions and rivalries.
Let us agree, let us agree if we can!" and Madam Wallingford, whose dignity
was not a thing to be lightly touched, turned toward Mary with a winning
smile. She knew that she must trust herself more and more to this young
heart's patience and kindness; yes, and to her judgment about their plans.
Thank God, this child who loved her was always at her side. With a strange
impulse to confess all these things, she put out her frail hand to Mary,
and Mary, willingly drawing a little closer, held it to her cheek. They
could best understand each other without words. The girl had a clear mind,
and had listened much to the talk of men. The womanish arguments of Madam
Wallingford always strangely confused her.

24 "Mr. Franklin will ever be
as young at heart as he is old in years," said the lady presently, with
the old charm of her manner, and all wistfulness and worry quite gone from
her face. She had been strengthened by Mary's love in the failing citadel
of her heart. "'T is Mr. Franklin's most noble gift that he can keep in
sympathy with the thoughts and purposes of younger men. Age is wont to
be narrow and to depend upon certainties of the past, while youth has its
easily gathered hopes and its intuitions. Mr. Franklin is both characters
at once, -- as sanguine as he is experienced. I knew him well; he will
be the same man now, and as easy a courtier as he was then content with
his thrift and prudence. I trust him among the first of those who can mend
our present troubles.

25 "I beg you not to think that
I am unmindful of our wrongs in the colonies, Mary, my dear," she added
then, in a changed voice. "'T is but your foolish way of trying to mend
them that has grieved me, -- you who call yourselves the Patriots!"

26 Mary smiled again and kept
silence, but with something of a doubtful heart. She did not wish to argue
about politics, that sunny day on the sea. No good could come of it, though
she had a keen sense that her companion's mind was now sometimes unsettled
from its old prejudices and firm beliefs. The captain was a stanch ["staunch"
in first edition] Royalist, who believed that the rebels were sure to be
put down, and that no sensible man should find himself left in the foolish
situation of a King's antagonist, or suffer the futility of such defeat.

27 "Will Mistress Davis look like
her mother, do you think?" Mary again bethought herself to return to the
simpler subject of their conversation.

28 "Yes, no doubt; they had the
same brave eyes and yet strangely timid look. 'T is but a delicate, womanish
face. Our cousin Davis would be white-headed now; she was already gray
in her twenties, when I last saw her. It sometimes seems but t' other day.
They said that Mistress Goodwin came home from Canada with her hair as
white as snow. Yes, their eyes were alike; but the daughter had a Goodwin
look, small-featured and neatly made, as their women are. She could hold
to a purpose and was very capable, and had wonderful quickness with figures;
't is common to the whole line. Mistress Hetty, the mother, had a pleasing
gentleness, but great dignity; she was born of those who long had been
used to responsibility and the direction of others."

29 Mary laughed a little. "When
you say 'capable,' it makes me think of old Peggy, at home," she explained.
"One day, not long ago, I was in the spinning room while we chose a pattern
for the new table linen, and she had a child there with her; you know that
Peggy is fond of a little guest. There had been talk of a cake, and the
child was currying favor lest she should be forgotten.

30 "'Mrs. Peggy,' she piped, 'my
aunt Betsey says as how you're a very capering woman!'

31 "'What, what?' says Peggy.
'Your aunt Betsey, indeed, you mite! Oh, I expect 't was capable
she meant,' says Peggy next moment, a little pacified, and turned to me
with a lofty air. 'Can't folks have an English tongue in their heads?'
she grumbled; but she ended our high affairs then, and went off to her
kitchen with the child safe in hand."

32 "I can see her go!" and Madam
Wallingford laughed too, easily pleased with the homely tale.

34 "Ah, but we must not laugh;
it hurts my poor heart even to smile," she whispered. "My dear son is in
prison, we know not where, and I have been forgetting him when I can laugh.
I know not if he be live or dead, and we are so far from him, tossing in
the midseas. Oh, what can two women like us do in England, in this time
of bitterness, if the Loyalists are reckoned but brothers of the rebels?
I dreamed it was all different till we heard such tales in Halifax."

35 "We shall find many friends,
and we need never throw away our hope," said Mary Hamilton soothingly.
"And Master Sullivan bade me remember with his last blessing that God never
makes us feel our weakness except to lead us to seek strength from Him.
'T was the saying of his old priest, the Abbé Fénelon."

36 They sat silent together; the
motion of the ship was gentle enough, and the western breeze was steady.
It seemed like a quiet night again; the sun was going down, and there was
a golden light in the thick web of rigging overhead, and the gray sails
were turned to gold color.

37 "It is I who should be staying
you, dear child," whispered Madam Wallingford, putting out her hand again
and resting it on Mary's shoulder, "but you never fail to comfort me. I
have bitterly reproached myself many and many a day for letting you follow
me; 't is like the book of Ruth, which always brought my tears as I read
it. I am far happier here with you than I have been many a day at home
in my lonely house. I need wish for a daughter's love no more. I sometimes
forget even my great sorrow and my fear of our uncertainty, and dread the
day when we shall come to land. I wish I were not so full of fears. Yet
I do not think God will let me die till I have seen my son."

38 Mary could not look just then
at her old friend's fragile figure and anxious face; she had indeed taken
a great charge upon herself, and a weakness stole over her own heart that
could hardly be borne. What difficulties and disappointments were before
them God only knew.

39 "Dear child," said Madam Wallingford,
whose eyes were fixed upon Mary's unconscious face, "is it your dreams
that keep your heart so light? I wish that you could share them with the
heavy-hearted like me! All this long winter you have shown a heavenly patience;
but your face was often sad, and this has grieved me. I have thought since
we came to sea that you have been happier than you were before."

40 "'T was not the distresses
that we all knew; something pained me that I could not understand. Now
it troubles me no more," and Mary looked at the questioner with a frank
smile.

41 "I am above all a hater of
curious questions," insisted the lady. But Mary did not turn her eyes away,
and smiled again.

42 "I can hold myself to silence,"
said Madam Wallingford. "I should not have spoken but for the love and
true interest of my heart; 't was not a vulgar greed of curiosity that
moved me. I am thankful enough for your good cheer; you have left home
and many loving cares, and have come with me upon this forced and anxious
journey as if 't were but a holiday."

43 Mary bent lower over her sewing.

44 "Now that we have no one but
each other I should be glad to put away one thought that has distressed
me much," confessed the mother, and her voice trembled. "You have never
said that you had any word from Roger. Surely there is no misunderstanding
between you? I have sometimes feared -- Oh, remember that I am his mother,
Mary! He has not written even to me in his old open fashion; there has
been a difference, as if the great distance had for once come between our
hearts; but this last letter was from his own true heart, from his very
self! The knowledge that he was not happy made me fearful, and yet I cannot
brook the thought that he has been faithless, galling though his hasty
oath may have been to him. Oh no, no! I hate myself for speaking so dark
a thought as this. My son is a man of high honor." She spoke proudly, yet
her anxious face was drawn with pain.

45 Mary laid down her piece of
linen, and clasped her hands together strongly in her lap. There was something
deeply serious in her expression, as she gazed off upon the sea.

46 "It is all right now," she
said presently, speaking very simply, and not without effort. "I have been
grieved for many weeks, ever since the first letters came. I had no word
at all from Roger, and we had been such friends. The captain wrote twice
to me, as I told you; his letters were the letters of a gentleman, and
most kind. I could be sure that there was no trouble between them, as I
feared sometimes at first," and the bright color rushed to her face. "It
put me to great anxiety; but the very morning before we sailed a letter
came from Roger. I could not bring myself to speak of it then; I can hardly
tell you now."

47 "And it is all clear between
you? I see, -- there was some misunderstanding, my dear. Remember that
my boy is sometimes very quick; 't is a hasty temper, but a warm and true
heart. Is it all clear now?"

48 Mary wished to answer, but
she could not, for all her trying, manage to speak a word; she did not
wish to show the deep feeling that was moving her, and first looked seaward
again, and then took up her needlework. Her hand touched the bosom of her
gown, to feel if the letter were there and safe. Madam Wallingford smiled,
and was happy enough in such a plain assurance.

49 "Oh yes!" Mary found herself
saying next moment, quite unconsciously, the wave of happy emotion having
left her calm again. "Oh yes, I have come to understand everything now,
dear Madam, and the letter was written while the Ranger lay in the port
of Brest. They were sailing any day for the English coast."

50 "Sometimes I fear that he may
be dead; this very sense of his living nearness to my heart may be only
-- The dread of losing him wakes me from my sleep; but sometimes by day
I can feel him thinking to me, just as I always have since he was a child;
't is just as if he spoke," and the tears stood bright in Madam Wallingford's
eyes.

51 "No, dear, he is not dead,"
said Mary, listening eagerly; but she could not tell even Roger Wallingford's
mother the reason why she was so certain.

XXXIII.

1 Miss Mary Hamilton and the captain
of the Golden Dolphin walked together from the busy boat landing up into
the town of Bristol. The tide was far down, and the captain, being a stout
man, was still wheezing from his steep climb on the long landing stairs.
It was good to feel the comfort of solid ground underfoot, and to hear
so loud and cheerful a noise of English voices, after their six long weeks
at sea, and the ring and clank of coppersmiths' hammers were not unpleasant
to the ear even in a narrow street. The captain was in a jovial temper
of mind; he had some considerable interest in his cargo, and they had been
in constant danger off the coast. Now that he was safe ashore, and the
brig was safe at anchor, he stepped quickly and carried his head high,
and asked their shortest way to Mr. Davis's house, to leave Mary there,
while he made plans for coming up to one of that well-known merchant's
wharves.

2 "Here we are at last!" exclaimed
the master mariner. "I can find my way across the sea straight to King's
Road and Bristol quay, but I'm easy lost in the crooked ways of a town.
I've seen the port of Bristol, too, a score o' times since I was first
a sailor, but I saw it never so dull as now. There 't is, the large house
beyond, to the port-hand side. He lives like a nobleman, does old Sir Davis.
I'll leave ye here now, and go my ways; they've sarvents a plenty to see
ye back to the strand."

3 The shy and much-occupied captain
now made haste toward the merchant's counting-room, and Mary hurried on
toward the house, anxious to know if Madam Wallingford's hopes were to
be assured, and if they should find Mistress Davis not only alive and well,
but ready to welcome them. As she came nearer, her heart beat fast at the
sight of a lady's trim head, white-capped, and not without distinction
of look, behind the panes of a bowed window. It was as plain that this
was a familiar sight, that it might every day be seen framed in its place
within the little panes, as if Mary had known the face since childhood,
and watched for a daily greeting as she walked a Portsmouth street at home.
She even hesitated for a moment, looking eagerly, ere she went to lift
the bright knocker of the street door.

4 In a minute more she was in
the room.

5 "I am Mary Hamilton, of Barvick,"
said the guest, with pretty eagerness, "and I bring you love and greeting
from Madam Wallingford, your old friend."

6 "From Madam Wallingford?" exclaimed
the hostess, who had thought to see a neighbor's daughter enter from the
street, and now beheld a stranger, a beautiful young creature, with a beseeching
look in her half-familiar face. "Come you indeed from old Barvick, my dear?
You are just off the sea, by your fresh looks. I was thinking of Mistress
Wallingford within this very hour; I grieved to think that now we are both
so old I can never see her face again. So you bring me news of her? Sit
you down; I can say that you are most welcome." Her eyes were like a younger
woman's, and they never left Mary's face.

7 "She is here; she is in the
harbor, on board the Golden Dolphin, one of her own ships. I have not only
brought news to you; I have brought her very self," said the girl joyfully.

8 There was a quick shadow upon
the hostess's face. "Alas, then, poor soul, I fear she has been driven
from her home by trouble; she would be one of the Loyalists! I'll send
for her at once. Come nearer me; sit here in the window seat!" begged Mistress
Davis affectionately. "You are little Mary Hamilton, of the fine house
I have heard of and never seen, the pride of my old Barvick. But your brother
would not change sides. You are both of the new party, -- I have heard
all that months ago; how happens it that the Golden Dolphin brought you
hither, too?"

9 Mary seated herself in the deep
window, while Mistress Davis gazed at her wonderingly. She had a tender
heart; she could read the signs of great effort and of loneliness in the
bright girlish face. She did not speak, but her long, discerning look and
the touch of her hand gave such motherly comfort that the girl might easily
have fallen to weeping. It was not that Mary thought of any mean pity for
herself, or even remembered that her dear charge had sometimes shown the
unconscious selfishness of weakness and grief; but brave and self-forgetful
hearts always know the true value of sympathy. They were friends and lovers
at first sight, the young girl and the elderly woman who was also Berwick-born.

10 "I have had your house filled
to its least garrets with Royalists out of my own country, and here comes
still another of them, with a young friend who is of the other party,"
Mistress Davis said gayly; and the guest looked up to see a handsome old
man who had entered from another room, and who frowned doubtfully as he
received this information. Mary's head was dark against the window, and
he took small notice of her at first, though some young men outside in
the street had observed so much of her beauty as was visible, and were
walking to and fro on the pavement, hoping for a still brighter vision.

11 "This is Miss Mary Hamilton,
of Barvick," announced the mistress, "and our old friend Madam Wallingford
is in harbor, on one of her ships." She knew that she need say no more.

12 Mr. John Davis, alderman of
Bristol and senior warden of his parish church, now came forward with some
gallantry of manner.

13 "I do not like to lay a new
charge upon you," said his wife, pleading prettily, "but these are not
as our other fugitives, poor souls!" and she smiled as if with some confidence.

14 "Why, no, these be both of
them your own kinsfolk, if I mistake not," the merchant agreed handsomely;
"and the better part of our living has come, in times past, from my dealings
with the husband of one and the good brother of the other. I should think
it a pity if, for whatever reason they may have crossed the sea, we did
not open wide our door; you may bid your maids make ready for their comfortable
housing. I shall go at once to find the captain, since he has come safe
to land in these days of piracy, and give so noble a gentlewoman as his
owner my best welcome and service on the ship. Perhaps Miss Hamilton will
walk with me, and give her own orders about her affairs?"

15 Mary stepped forward willingly
from the window, in answer to so kind a greeting; and when she was within
close range of the old man's short-sighted eyes, she was inspected with
such rapid approval and happy surprise that Mr. Alderman Davis bent his
stately head and saluted so fair a brow without further consideration.
She was for following him at once on his kind errand, but she first ran
back and kissed the dear mistress of the house. "I shall have much to tell
you of home," she whispered; "you must spare me much time, though you will
first be so eager for your own friend."

16 "We shall find each other changed,
I know, -- we have both seen years and trouble enough; but you must tell
Mrs. Wallingford I have had no such happiness in many a year as the sight
of her face will bring me. And dear Nancy Haggens?" she asked, holding
Mary back, while the merchant grew impatient at the delay of their whispering.
"She is yet alive?" And Mary smiled.

17 "I shall tell you many things,
not only of her, but of the gay major," she replied aloud. "Yes, I am coming,
sir; but it is like home here, and I am so happy already in your kind house."
Then they walked away together, he with a clinking cane and majestic air,
and kindly showing Miss Hamilton all the sights of Bristol that they passed.

18 "So you sailed on the Golden
Dolphin?" he asked, as they reached the water side. "She is a small vessel,
but she wears well; she has made this port many a time before," said John
Davis. "And lumber-laden, you say? Well, that is good for me, and you are
lucky to escape the thieving privateers out of your own harbors. So Madam
Wallingford has borne her voyage handsomely, you think? What becomes of
her young son?"

XXXIV.

1 Late that evening, while the
two elder ladies kept close together, and spoke eagerly of old days and
friends long gone out of sight, John Davis sat opposite his young guest
at the fireplace, as he smoked his after-supper pipe.

2 The rich oak-paneled room was
well lit by both firelight and candles, and held such peace and comfort
as Mary never had cause to be so grateful for before. The cold dampness
of the brig, their close quarters, and all the dullness and impatience
of the voyage were past now, and they were safe in this good English house,
among old friends. 'T was the threshold of England, too, and Roger Wallingford
was somewhere within; soon they might be sailing together for home. Even
the worst remembrance of the sea was not unwelcome, with this thought at
heart!

3 The voyagers had been listening
to sad tales of the poverty and distress of nearly all the Loyalist refugees
from America, the sorrows of Governor Hutchinson and his house, and of
many others. The Sewalls, the Faneuils, and the Boutineaus who were still
in Bristol had already sent eager messages. Mistress Davis warned her guests
that next day, when news was spread of their coming, the house would be
full of comers and goers; all asking for news, and most of them for money,
too. Some were now in really destitute circumstances who had been rich
at home, and pensions and grants for these heartsick Loyalists were not
only slow in coming, but pitiful in their meagreness. There was a poor
gentleman from Salem, and his wife with him, living in the Davis's house;
they had lodged upward of thirty strangers since the year came in; 't was
a heavy charge upon even a well-to-do man, for they must nearly all borrow
money beside their food and shelter. Madam Wallingford was not likely to
come empty-handed; the small, heavy box with brass scutcheons which the
captain himself had escorted from the Golden Dolphin, late that afternoon,
was not without comfortable reassurance, and the lady had asked to have
a proper waiting maid chosen for her, as she did not wish to be a weight
upon the household. But there were other problems to be faced. This good
merchant, Mr. Davis, was under obligations to so old a friend, and he was
not likely to be a niggard, in any sense, when she did him the honor to
seek his hospitality.

4 "I must go to my library, where
I keep my business matters; 't is but a plain book room, a place for my
less public affairs. We may have some private talk there, if you are willing,"
he said, in a low voice; and Mary rose at once and followed him. The ladies
did not even glance their way, though the merchant carefully explained
that he should show his guest a very great ledger which had been brought
up from his counting-room since business had fallen so low. She might see
her brother's name on many of the pages.

5 "Let us speak frankly now,"
he urged, as they seated themselves by as bright a fire of blazing coals
as the one they had left. "You can trust me with all your troubles," said
the fatherly old man. "I am distressed to find that Madam Wallingford's
case is so desperate."

6 Mary looked up, startled from
the peace of mind into which she had fallen.

7 "Do you know anything, sir?"
she begged him earnestly. "Is it likely" -- But there she stopped, and
could go no further.

8 "I had not the heart to tell
her," he answered, "but we have already some knowledge of that officer
of the Ranger who was left ashore at Whitehaven: he has been reported as
gravely wounded, and they would not keep him in any jail of that northern
region, but sent him southward in a dying state, saying that he should
by rights go to his own kind in the Mill Prison. You must be aware that
such an unprovoked attack upon a British seaport has made a great stir
among us," added the merchant, with bitterness.

9 Mary remembered the burning
of Falmouth in her own province, and was silent.

10 "If he had been a deserter,
and treacherous at heart, as I find there was suspicion," he continued;
"yes, even if his own proper feelings toward the King had mastered your
lieutenant, I do not know that his situation would have been any better
for the moment. They must lack spirit in Whitehaven; on our Bristol wharves
the mob would have torn such a prisoner limb from limb. You must remember
that I am an Englishman born and bred, and have no patience with your rebels.
I see now 't was a calmer judgment ruled their course when they sent him
south; but if he is yet in the Mill Prison, and alive, he could not be
in a worse place. This war is costing the King a fortune every week that
it goes on, and he cannot house such pirates and spies in his castle at
Windsor."

11 Mary's eyes flashed; she was
keeping a firm hold upon her patience. "I think, from what we are told
of the Mill Prison, that the King has gone too far to the other extreme,"
she could not forbear saying, but with perfect quietness.

12 "Well, we are not here to talk
politics," said the alderman uneasily. "I have a deep desire to serve so
old and respected a friend as this young man's mother. I saw the boy once
when he came to England; a promising lad, I must own, and respectful to
his elders. I am ready to serve him, if I can, for his father's sake, and
to put all talk of principles by, or any question of his deserts. We have
been driven to the necessity of keeping watchers all up and down the coast
by night and day, to send alarm by beacons into our towns. They say Paul
Jones is a born divil, and will stick at nothing. How came Colonel Wallingford's
son to cast in his lot with such a gallows rogue?"

13 "If you had lived on our river
instead of here in Bristol, you would soon know," replied Mary. "Our honest
industries have long been hindered and forbidden; we are English folk,
and are robbed of our rights."

14 "Well, well, my dear, you seem
very clear for a woman; but I am an old man, and hard to convince. Your
brother should be clear-headed enough; he is a man of judgment; but how
such men as he have come to be so mistaken and blind" --

15 "It is Parliament that has
been blind all the time," insisted Mary. "If you had been with us on that
side of the sea, you would be among the first to know things as they are.
Let us say no more, sir; I cannot lend myself to argument. You are so kind,
and I am so very grateful for it, in my heart."

16 "Well, well," exclaimed the
old man again, "let us speak, then, of this instant business that you have
in hand! I take it you have a heart in the matter, too; I see that you
cherish Madam Wallingford like her own child. We must find out if the lad
is still alive, and whether it is possible to free him. I heard lately
that they have had the worst sort of smallpox among them, and a jail fever
that is worse than the plague itself. 'T is not the fault of the jail,
I wager you, but some dirty sailor brought it from his foul ship," he added
hastily. "They are all crowded in together; would they had kept at home
where they belong!"

17 "You speak hard words," said
the girl impatiently, and with plain reproach, but looking so beautiful
in her quick anger that the old man was filled with wonder and delight
before his conscience reminded him that he should be ashamed. He was not
used to being so boldly fronted by his own women folk; though his wife
always had her say, she feared and obeyed him afterward without question.

18 "I wish that this foolish tea
had never been heard of; it has been a most detestable weed for England,"
grumbled the old merchant. "They say that even your Indians drink it now,
or would have it if they could."

19 "Mr. Davis, you have seen something
of our young country," said the girl, speaking in a quiet tone. "You have
known how busy our men are at home, how steadily they go about their business.
If you had seen, as I did, how they stood straight and dropped whatever
they had in hand, and were hot with rage when the news came from Boston
and we knew that we were attacked at Lexington and Concord, you would have
learned how we felt the bitter wrong. 'T was not the loss of our tea or
any trumpery tax; we have never been wanting in generosity, or hung back
when we should play our part. We remembered all the old wrongs: our own
timber rotting in our woods that we might not cut; our own waterfalls running
to waste by your English law, lest we cripple the home manufacturers. We
were hurt to the heart, and were provoked to fight; we have turned now
against such tyranny. All we New England women sat at home at first and
grieved. The cannon sounded loud through our peaceful country. They shut
our ports, and we could not stand another insult without boldly resenting
it. We had patience at first, because our hearts were English hearts; then
we turned and fought with all our might, because we were still Englishmen,
and there is plenty of fight left in us yet."

20 "You are beset by the pride
of being independent, and all for yourselves," Mr. Davis accused her.

21 "Our hearts are wounded to
the quick, because we are the same New England folk who fought together
with the King's troops at Louisburg, and you have oppressed us," said Mary
quickly. "I heard that Mr. John Adams said lately -- and he has been one
of our leaders from the first -- that there had not been a moment since
the beginning of hostilities when he would not have given everything he
possessed for a restoration to the state of things before the contest began,
if we could only have security enough for its continuance. We did not wish
to separate from England. If it has come, it is only from our sad necessity.
But cannot you see that, being English people, we must insist upon our
rights? We are not another race because we are in another country."

22 "Tut, tut, my dear," said the
old man uneasily. "What does a pretty girl like you know about rights?
So that's the talk you've listened to? We may need to hear more of it;
you sound to me as if Fox had all along been in the right, and knew the
way to bring back our trade." He began to fidget in his elbow chair and
to mend the fire. "I can't go into all this; I have had a wearying day,"
-- he began to make faint excuse. "There's much you should hear on England's
side; you only know your own; and this war is costing Parliament a terrible
drain of money."

23 "Do you know anything of Lord
Newburgh, and where he may be found?" asked Mary, with sudden directness.

24 "My Lord Newburgh?" repeated
Mr. Davis wonderingly. "And what should you want with him? I know him but
by name. He would be the son of that Ratcliffe who was a Scotch rebel in
the year '45, and lost his head by it, too; he was brother to the famous
Lord Darwentwater. 'T was a wild family, an unfortunate house. What seek
you at their hands?"

25 Mary sat looking into the fire,
and did not answer.

26 "Perhaps you can send some
one with me toward Plymouth to-morrow?" she asked presently, and trembled
a little as she spoke. She had grown pale, though the bright firelight
shone full in her face. "The captain learned when we first came ashore
that Lord Mount Edgecumbe is likely to be commander of that prison where
our men are; the Mill Prison they said it was, above Plymouth town. I did
not say anything to Madam Wallingford, lest our hopes should fail; but
if you could spare a proper person to go with me, I should like to go to
Plymouth."

27 The old man gazed at her with
wonder.

28 "You do not know what a wild
goose chase means, then, my little lady!" he exclaimed, with considerable
scorn. "Lord Mount Edgecumbe! You might as well go to Windsor expecting
a morning talk and stroll in the park along with the King. 'T is evident
enough one person is the same as another in your colonies! But if you wish
to try, I happened to hear yesterday that the great earl is near by, in
Bath, where he takes the waters for his gout. You can go first to Mr. George
Fairfax, of Virginia, with whom Madam Wallingford is acquainted; she has
told me that already. He is of a noble house, himself, Mr. Fairfax, and
may know how to get speech with these gentlemen: why, yes, 't is a chance,
indeed, and we might achieve something." Mr. Davis gave a satisfied look
at the beautiful face before him, and nodded his sage head.

29 "I shall go with you, myself,
if it is a fair day to-morrow," he assured her. "I am on good terms with
Mr. Fairfax. I was long agent here for their tobacco ships, the old Lord
Fairfaxes of Virginia; but all that rich trade is good as done," and he
gave a heavy sigh. "We think of your sailors in the Mill Prison as if they
were all divils. You won't find it easy to get one of them set free," he
added boldly.

30/31 Mary gave a startled look,
and drew back a little. "I hear the King is glad to ship them on his men-of-war,"
she said, "and that the Mill Prison is so vile a place the poor fellows
are thankful to escape from it, even if they must turn traitor to their
own cause."

32 "Oh, sailors are sailors!"
grumbled the old man. "I find Madam Wallingford most loyal to our government,
however, so that there is a chance for her. And she is no beggar or would-be
pensioner; far from it! If her son had been on any other errand than this
of the Ranger's, she might easier gain her ends, poor lady. 'What stands
in the way?' you may ask. Why, only last week our own coast was in a panic
of fear!" John Davis frowned at the fire, so that his great eyebrows looked
as if they were an assaulting battery. He shrugged his shoulders angrily,
and puffed hard at his pipe, but it had gone out altogether; then he smiled,
and spoke in a gentler tone:

33 "Yes, missy, we'll ride to
Bath to-morrow, an the weather should be fair; the fresh air will hearten
you after the sea, and we can talk with Mr. Fairfax, and see what may be
done. I'm not afraid to venture, though they may know you for a little
rebel, and set me up to wear a wooden ruff all day in the pillory for being
seen with you!"

34 "I must speak ye some hard
words," the old man added unexpectedly, leaning forward and whispering
under his breath, as if the solid oak panels might let his forebodings
reach a mother's ears in the room beyond. "The young man may be dead and
gone long before this, if he was put into the Mill Prison while yet weak
from his wounds. If he is there, and alive, I think the King himself would
say he could not let him out. There's not much love lost in England now
for Paul Jones or any of his crew."